


a thousand screams in the dark

by psychedelicbubblegum



Series: in the mouth of madness [2]
Category: Demonata Series - Darren Shan
Genre: Anxiety, Body Horror, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Culture Shock, Demons, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Introspection, Loss, Magic, Male-Female Friendship, More Magic, Multi, Necromancy, POV First Person, Questioning, Resurrection, Romance, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Sister-Sister Relationship, Social Anxiety, outsider friendship, tonnes of original creatures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-06 00:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17929469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychedelicbubblegum/pseuds/psychedelicbubblegum
Summary: Moving house presents many challenges. New friends, new environment, new home. But for Esther, this move is about to shake the very way she views the fabric of reality. Creatures of darkness, necromancy and demons seem to be the most normal editions in the screwed-up new world she's about to inhabit... Quitting isn't an option though.





	1. the move

At first I thought mum was joking when she told me. My mum isn’t one for humour but I thought she was having a go for once, and I was horribly mistaken.

 

She announced we were going to be moving house; and for once it was dad’s decision - not her’s - which pretty much blew my mind away. Mum always made decisions for our household, it was just the way things worked - a program I’d not only always understood, but one I’d been happy to comply with, for the most part. Resistance is futile when it comes to my mother - she’s a lawyer, Serena Blake (not famous or anything, but has a good reputation amongst her own accumulated circles), so arguing tends to never work out in your favor, although my uncle’s not really caught on with that revolutionary enlightening yet.

 

Apparently dad wanted to move somewhere scenic - more remote, more picturesque, surrounded by the beauty of nature and all its silent inspiration; so his artwork’s popularity could be influenced by this new muse, and for once, mum was happy with this change (I’ve been told we’re very alike when it comes to preferring the original status quo) - even if it meant working for a much smaller firm with a considerably lower pay.

 

My dad’s the surrealist artist, Michael Blake. Y’know? The guy who did the picture of the apples - bottle green, I’ve been told about the paint over sixty times by now - that met between the bright green sea and the orange tinted sky, resembling some sort of ‘personal reflection’ (the smirk he gets whenever he says that clued me in long ago it’s about as sincere as half the critics who’ve gazed upon it, eyes glassy and fish like. Intrusively picky). His most famous painting in his entire career - some critics now scornfully call the ‘only’ one; conceived when I was only two years old, and mum had started working at her first official law firm (the one she parted ways with when I was five). He tells us he’s working on his new masterpiece; said masterpiece has taken twelve years. I’m sixteen now, and all his other paintings have gotten a lukewarm reception compared to the ‘inspired’ apples, that garnered him a near cult-following. Some days dad laments they’re the only thing keeping his career going and it pains me to sometimes agree.

 

Esther - the name I was gifted with -  means ‘friendly, approachable and generous’ in text book terms. I managed to be an impressive one of these traits.

 

I’m not friendly by any admirable means as no-one really approaches me at school, and subsequently that leads to me being on the quieter side, crossing out approachability in its midst.  I hope you could call me generous, but even then I’m only that by default as I lend people things whenever they ask, but it’s not a particularly friendly exchange - namely because I never had any friends at my (now) old school. I figure now I’ve completed generosity I can move onto the others - hopefully a new environment will make that process of application a little easier.

 

Socialising is something both of my parents fair pretty well at, and I really overestimated my own abilities considering their considerable prowess. People tend to find me ‘too weird’ to be friends with - namely the whole not really talking much thing; not that I’m even sure I have much of interest to say. ‘Hi, you may have heard of my dad, he painted ‘Equinox’ - y’know? The bottle green apples on the acid trip landscape?’ - not exactly a captivating introduction, is it? Socially, I’m about as appealing as a mouldy banana.

 

I’ve got one of those faces people say is beautiful...if you take the time to look at it. So, if you stared for about a minute you’ll apparently see the ‘beauty’ that’s hidden there. No-one does, and I can’t exactly blame them. I’m socially useless but even I know staring at people’s faces isn’t considered too acceptable. It doesn’t help makeup is - and forever will be - a foreign concept to me (there goes another potential conversation topic I can scratch off the list). Not that I wouldn’t wear makeup - it’s more I can’t. Skin allergies and sensitive pores popped that dream balloon before it even properly arose when I was twelve.

 

The only features of mine people find interesting are my hair and eyes - that’s probably for all the wrong reasons though, as they refuse to complement each other. I’m pale - painfully, dreadfully, bizarrely pale, if I want to overemphasise with adjectives (sometimes I’m inclined to embody dad’s flair for the dramatic). My mum, who was born Serena Tolnay, is Danish, hailing from Copenhagen (the capital) and she’s that kind of Scandinavian people have tended to stereotype. Tall (long torso, even long legs, with an elegant grace to their movements), platinum haired (straight as a bored, always lacquered and kept tied back tightly when she’s working, silken and glossy, to the point it shimmers when in the right lighting), with a snowy complexion that transforms her into a mythical ice queen. She’s beautiful, a terrifying sort of beauty with her strong jawline, high cheekbones, thin lipped smile and hooded eyes; that attracted the kind of daydreamer my dad has always embodied. A fire prince unafraid to speak to such a frozen maiden. I fall more under milk maid at the best of times, and even then that’s when you discount my contrasting hair and eyes.

 

My eyes are strikingly dark blue - they’ve sometimes been mistaken as black under the wrong (or maybe that should be the right?) sort of lighting; a sort of midnight sky in shade (which I only know thanks to hours of flipping through paint manuels on weekends when I’ve had nothing better to do), and they’re like crows eyes amongst my pale complexion. They’re intense, beady and glitter with an avian intelligence that only remind people of lack of trust and intrusivity.

 

As for my hair, it’s a pale blonde - the ultimate clash against my crow-sharp indigo eyes - but not quite reaching mum’s platinum shade, falling a few hurdles short to a lemony tint. It’s grown long (helps to hide the pale face, trust me) and wispy, curling on itself after a good battering from the wind. I tried curling it once but the first time it got toasted and morphed into a good impression of straw; and the second time I tried, my impatient streak meant taking almost an hour and a half for one side of my head was never going to be something I could handle. I just gave it up, washed it and it returned to its natural pale mane. Like I (once ironically) said, resistance tends to prove futile.

 

And so my lack of resistance landed me in the back of our car, following a removal van, to a place in Ireland known simply as Carcery Vale. That was the part that didn’t make sense to me.

 

I’ve lived in Newcastle my entire life - upping sticks for Ireland? I thought it’d be somewhere like Manchester or Leeds even, but Ireland? 

 

The landscape beauty provided a lot of answers - even if merely in photographic form. Dad wants his next masterpiece, so rolling hills and demure trickling streams should be the ideal place to nurture such a creation. A surrealist tends to reject nature, but dad’s always proven to be the exception to that rule. He’s told me his intent was always to bring a sense of ‘acid trip fantasy to natural beauty’. And _ Equinox _ (the apples) worked. So why couldn’t the critics just accept his vision? 

 

I wish I had an answer for him, but the art world is something that’s always baffled me, even more so than mum or Evie, and she’s only four.

 

Evie’s as cute as a hamster wrapped in cotton wool, sprinkled with sugar, or can be as annoying as techno music - depending on whatever mood she’s feeling up to embodying. And journey car journeys (especially the long variety), she always seems inclined toward the latter.

 

Our car has no air conditioning, so we’ve rolled down the windows and are all probably (secretly) praying a wasp won’t find its way in. Sometimes my prayers seem to be answered as so far, no flying devil. The roar of the wind is even drowning out whatever Evie’s saying about some kids show so nonsensical only little kids really understand it, and I should know - I’ve watched some of her cartoons with her, and out the two of us she shows a hell of a lot more intuition than I’m capable of when it comes to interpretation. So I decide upon staring out the window...for the entire flippin’ journey.

Sheep, cows, tree after tree, and the occasional shock of thinking I’ve seen something in the forest is only fun for about two minutes. I play with the hem of my skirt, untie my hair from its ponytail to re-tie it, yawn a lot, stare at the car ceiling, try and remember the word for platypus in Spanish, all to no avail.

  
Dad’s old synth CDs are playing in the front - a means of compromise to avoid flatout warfare breaking out over Evie putting on one of her nursery rhyme tapes and me making some melodramatic gesture (I’m so aware of them now it’s embarrassing and frustrating how I’m unable to stop repeating them) - but we’ve never really had abundant musical choice. I prefer listening to my music alone (but like the complete wanker I am I’ve forgotten to charge my MP3), so the car choices we have are Slovakian disco (which only me and mum understand, after she tutored me to stop my isolation getting too much...not like I’ve ever told her I figured out why), dad’s 70s/80s classics (which I privately enjoy, but no way am I letting him rub my nose in it) or Evie’s nursery rhymes (ear sodomy - as none of those people can sing a note). Whimsical tittering is something a total misery like myself cannot abide.

 

I try to be honest with myself most of the time, I really do.

 

Over the sound of Pseudo Echo roaring into a keyboard solo from the front of the car, mum calls to me. Her hair’s been pushed back with a simple hairband and I can see the glow of her perfectly applied makeup in the mirror (a sting of envy from my jealous self), everything crisp and in place. Sometimes I’m convinced mum became a lawyer because she’s so aesthetically destined for it. “Oh Esther, I’ve enrolled you at their local secondary school!” She yells slightly over the whirring music. “You start on Thursday, the 20th that is!”

 

Today is Monday the 10th, meaning I get a whole week of nothing to do! On the bright side, I’ll be able to organise my room, do some exploring of the local area and possibly even form an attack plan so I can actually make some friends at my new school. On the light bulb smashed side, watching daytime TV and mulling around by my lonesome is fun for about three days, but I know I’ll get bored.

 

Back home, the loneliness was something easier to ignore, it’d nestled comfortably in my bones and I’d acclimated myself to it deep down. But in a new place...my lack of friends felt magnified. I had no-one from back home who’d really remember me, who I could ring or email. My classmates had signed my shirt politely, but most of them had seemed more bemused I even existed. I could blame them as much as I couldn’t. I wasn’t someone that interesting or that friendly. In the beginning I guess I’d found being a loner cool, a great sign of my individuality and uniqueness. At sixteen and with the impending idea I had to make new friends with no prior experience or even former friendships from my old home? It was a miserable reminder that I seemed good at one thing: closing myself off.

 

At home my only real companion to avoid wallowing in my own pity would be Evie. Sure, she’s about as sugary sweet as a hamster dipped in treacle tar and artificial sugars, but it wasn’t like we could talk, or that we shared many interests. The age gap has proven to make me more like her aunt than her big sister sometimes. And I know it’s really my fault for being so awkward.

 

Judging by the fact my parents were already gearing up for their new work, I’ll be looking after Evie. Looking after is something we make work well, as I am efficient in keeping her entertained - usually because she finds me speaking either Danish or Slovakian amusing. When she’s older I’ve vowed to teach her. Be a good big sister and endow her a life skill, something I feel I’ve failed to do so far.

 

Mum’s going to be starting work near immediately, just in case someone tries to snaffle up a case I know she’s had her eye on for a while (hell it’s been near  _ promised _ to her), and dad’s going to want to get  good idea of his surroundings. I know we’re not actually living in the Vale itself,  more on the outskirts, so we’re ‘closer to nature’ (as much as that phrase annoys me). But I have to agree with my dad on one thing, Carcery Vale sure is beautiful...in a near mystical sort of way.

 

Luscious greenery, cool blue skies, fields blotted entirely with the bright burning of flowers and whisping corn, a place almost entirely unmarred by the taint of modern technology. It’s an artists dream. No-one ever gives my dad enough credit for his smarts, but when they shine through, boy are they a lighthouse beacon.

 

There’s at least one other house all the way out on the border of the Vale; a mansion owned by a man named Dervish Grady. Apparently mum knew ‘back in the old days’, something linking to them attending the same university (albeit different courses, based on the rare tidbits of information I’ve garnered via eavesdropping). He has a nephew - who lost his parents (something mum told me in advance, so I don’t put my foot in things...that is if I’m ever brave enough to try attempting a conversation) - who’s name begins with a ‘G’ and is apparently ‘unusual’, but apart from that, mum and Dervish’s connection is somewhat dubious. I had a few uncomfortable suspicions they used to date - maybe the relationship even ended messily, as she doesn’t always seem to speak too kindly of him; but dad’s lack of protest at the fact she’s insisted we go visit him seems to have told me I was wrong. Either that or the relationship just really didn’t end as badly as I suspected. 

 

I’ve seen a couple photos of my mum as a teenager, back in the 1970’s, and she looked even more stunning then than she manages to now. None of the few wrinkles she’s acquired from stress, hair flowing glossily and unrestrained like a Disney princess, a glorious figure unmarred by the strain of having children. Even now though I see why dad always seems so delighted he managed to snare her.

 

Part of me sometimes hopes one day I will get to look like my mother; glorious, slim waisted yet wide busted, a real-life Barbie doll. Judging by the way I’m going though, I’m going to be more like one of Barbie’s background friends - not quite as plastically and perky, though. Mum’s looks and high IQ are something even I internally admit I’m envious of, but at least I got her brain’s, which is something I’m eternally thankful for. At least I could be a smart loner - that was something I used to desperately reassure myself with.

 

Evie’s going to be the pretty sister, at least that’s what I’ve surmised so far. Unlike me, the pale complexion suits her, making her look like a child Snow White. Little button nose, doe eyes as bright as the spring skies, topped off with neat raven bunches. Evie got dad’s black hair, contrasting itself beautifully with mum’s aqua eyes, with her rounded cheeks making her look twice as adorable. If I had dark hair I’d look twice as creepy as people have called me under their breath now. I’d look like a corpse with dark hair (something I realised during a particular bout of melodrama when I vowed I’d dye it onyx), so I’ve grown to be way more thankful of being lemon blonde.

 

Dad’s freckled - heavier than either of us:  Evie - who has a few clinging to her soft cheeks and others dotted along her dimpled chin; or me, with the golden spots that emerge on my arms or across my cheeks in the summer, when I’m not charred red as a lobster - with a mop of black curls and a grin like a shock of lightning. He usually wears suspenders - something mum used to tease him about mercilessly when they first got together - but like the rest of us, he’s slender and has a thin waist, so he actually manages to pull them off without looking ridiculous. My dad embodies artist, but somehow has never looked pathetic in doing so. Large, square rimmed glasses cover his eyes - the identical navy to my own - and paint always flecks his fingertips from hours of work.

 

Sometimes I worry if dad wasn’t an artist I’d be much harsher towards them...I think most people would be if they didn’t love one. And it’s those sorts of worries that make me want this move to succeed, despite my pessimism and whinging. Even if I’m already wishing I was in school, so I could be properly socially awkward around other teenagers, and get into a panic about my GCSEs (which I’ve been conveniently pushing to the back of my mind ever since Year 9...and I’m now well into Year 11).

 

The car stops - I’ve clearly been distracted by my shameless inner self-pitying and musings - and I hear mum and dad get out, which causes me to hang back. They usually do this when they want to be ‘secretive’, but I’ve long figured this one out (being a loner does give you good people reading skills - so I’m thankful for that at least).

 

Mum has a pleased smile on her face already - gazing up at the building - and dad looks ecstatic. Like a little boy with an Action Man, or even (if I want to be a total dick) a painter finding his success. They’ve already begun whispering to one another, eyes turned away from the house and back onto one another ( _ suspicions correct, Esther _ ). I’m usually not in the mood for eavesdropping on my parents but I freeze just as I’m beginning to turn away, as mum puts her hand over her stomach in an action I’ve seen once before. A memory I distinctively can single out.

 

Having horny parents - not cool.

 

Especially as an insecure part of me is worried about getting another sibling. There’ll only be five years, maybe six, between them and Evie, but me? A whole seventeen. By the time they’re my age I’ll be thirty-four. Maybe married with children of my own. There was always going to be one major downside to my parents conceiving me when they were only twenty-two years old, and sibling age gaps was something I never considered up until Evie’s conception (when I was near certain I was simply going to remain an only child thanks to all the time that'd passed, too self-important to understand my parents had stabilized their careers by that point in time).

 

A childish part of me is sullenly annoyed I’m impressed when I look up at the house. It’s an older model, I know that as much, crafted from what appears to be white plaster that’s impressively devoid of cracks and not entirely battered from years of being hidden away in the countryside. Three stories high (attic included) with large, arching windows on the ground floor, giving it a bizarre mediterranean vibe I never anticipated I’d give it. A large set of double doors meet the front of the house, facing the driveway, and the voice of the previous owner mentioning having new ones fitted rings home as I realise the wooden structures look considerably younger than the rest of the structure. The garden itself seems to stretch on for miles and miles, leading outwards into the forest and endless fields which surrounded the property, only branched off with small, wooden fences. It was mostly untrimmed, like a thick jungle, but I like that untidiness for some reason, similar to dad.

 

Imperfections are what make you special, that’s what Grandmother Tolnay enjoyed telling us before her passing.

 

_ Yes. _

  
I can feel myself smiling as I lean over to unbuckle Evie, who’s patent shoes are hitting the back of the seat as she swings her feet back and forth, head turning round over and over as she attempts to take in all her surroundings at once; Mr Dobbs, her stuffed cat (dyed a bright prussian blue thanks to an accident with some washing on the behalf of my cousin Helena), clutched tightly to her chest as she joins me, mum, dad (and my future brother or sister who hasn’t officially been announced yet) standing by the property, removal van registering only vaguely in my peripherals.  _ I think I’m going to like it here, really. _


	2. dreams vs. reality: what bites more?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling in proves to be harder than Esther expected; especially as she finds herself dwindling on the past, and the one person she knows has been left behind - granted, she didn't quite imagine it'd be her own dreams giving her all these anxieties...

I’m swimming, which is the first thing that strikes me as odd. 

 

I barely swim, not even in my dreams really; but here I am. It’s not that I can’t swim, I just don’t like water too much. No dramatic stories about almost drowning as a child or having a traumatic experience in the bath it’s just...water doesn’t sit well with me. It never has. Swimming pools never featured heavily in my childhood so maybe it’s desensitization that’s caused my reluctance? I’m not too sure.

 

But I know that even subconsciously we never have control over our dreams. Dreams chose us, not the other way round. It’s up to them whether we’ll have the sweetest daydream of farway castles, princes and pegasi, dancing through the skies like feathered, hooven planes; or nightmares - your worst fears coming into picture, haunting you, tormenting you, driving you about a quarter crazy before relinquishing you (reluctantly albeit it), back into the warm embrace of sanity and reason. And for some reason, nightmares like me.

 

My arms outstretched in front of my gracefully, as I swim as naturally as a fish, totally at ease in the water; blonde hair paler than ever in the moonlight, pushed towards mum’s silvery golden, sits carefully atop the water as I swim along. My eyelids flutter occasionally as I blink, occasionally staring up towards the moon above me. I’m outside. Somewhere. A location hasn’t been specified yet. It shines like a giant, glimmering spotlight amongst the cloudless night. My dream sky is even darker than my sharp crows eyes; little stars sparkle just like them, winking down on me.

 

I smile, briefly, but it fades as almost quickly as it comes when I realise I’m totally alone.

 

My nightmares seem to love making me stay alone; because I always have been in some ways, and it’s a state I seem to remain in. They don’t indulge me in being chased by some fearsome monster or stalked by a calculating human killer. It’s always loneliness. A total isolation and deprivation of human contact. A reminder that - no matter how hard I try and block it out...I’m all by myself. Friendless, studious, ironically named Esther Blake - ignored by her classmates because she’s too fucking cowardly to try talking to them, and she’s got a whole archive of excuses to justify this. 

 

I’ve often told myself I’d love to be able to help people...but I’ve never gotten close enough to really try.

 

Embarrassing as it fleetingly is, I know I’m naked.

 

I can feel the water slipping around my bare skin, acting like an old, silken blanket; keeping me warm. And I know why I’m swimming now, it’s beginning to clarify in my drowse psyche. Who I am swimming to.

 

A young woman is sitting on the edge of the lake, dipping her toes in occasionally, smiling peacefully as she strokes a bizarre creature sat next to her. It’s a cat...at least I think it’s a cat? Only it’s fur is a light blue shade with white stripes, eyes glowing a leathery brown, flecks of piercing red shining through, almost seeming to vibrate independently of where the darkness settles; gazing upon its own reflection...only it has a long, barbed, scorpion's tale, stinger primed and carefreely swishing through the freezing air; and every time its tongue darts out it’s obscenely long, a pinched pink, mimicking an ugly sore, slithering like a starving giraffes, globs of saliva clinging to the surface.

 

I’m not afraid, it’s a dream, I know it’s a dream, and the woman’s smiling at me kindly. She won’t sick her scorpion feline on me. I know that. At least I keep telling myself that...

 

“Why don’t you come to me, my dear?” She asks, voice crisp and sharp, holding the sort of rich accent typically depicted on historical dramas. An over pronounced Britishness; almost like she’s clinging onto it. There’s a strange hiss behind the thick poshness hinting at another mother tongue. It’s not an ask really. It’s a command. “Let me get a better look at you. At  _ all _ of you. Let me take you in...”

 

The closer I get, the better a view I can get of her, the more I can study her features. She looks about thirty-one, only seven years younger than mum. Her figure is tall, limbs long and languide, one hand outstretched towards me on a branch of an arm, everything about her smooth. She peaks seven foot I guess, with a slender waist and small, plum-like breasts clothed in a long, ornate cream gown; everything about her effortlessly smooth and poised. The gown has a slit up the left hand side, exposing snow white skin, tinted grey and blue in the moonlight. Her face is the closest thing to perfect I’d never seen. Crafted with painstaking creation. A genetic alliance of eerily wonderful chromosomes. Eyes, nose, mouth, all working in tandem to create a vision so powerful it fringes on terrifying. No-one should look that good. It’s impossible. Even the highest status models aren’t agreed on in terms of attractiveness. She blows all of them out the water with her unbelievable majesty. It makes my sharp cheekbones, calloused index fingers and crows eyes burn with insecurity. Someone so pretty’s designed to make you uncomfortable and seamlessly intimidate.

 

Pure golden eyes shone through the dark atmosphere. A river of midnight hair curls around her thighs - tightly wound; by natural genes or careful procedures I can’t tell, but I’d bet good money on the former. Her rose petal lips are fashioned into an easy, carefree smile as she beckons me forwards with a crooked finger; as I continue my journey through the warm water.

 

_ Warm? _

 

The water is naturally warm...and it looks black in the night. Black, until the moonlight hits it. Then it flashes crimson red.  _ Blood _ red. Because it  _ is  _ blood! I’m swimming in a lake of blood; the viscous goo coating my skin, seeping into my pores; grinding into my bones. I stare at the ends of my hair and raise my hand as I draw to a halt in the water. Scarlett rivulets patter off the tips of my fingers like little tears. My curtain of lemon hair has red streaks beginning to creep upwards from the ends, both colours fighting for control as the sharp, rudish richness contrasts against the furious pale blonde.

 

I shiver violently in horror, eyes widening in shock and horror. My stomach churns unhelpfully, and I feel bile begin to rise upwards from within. I open my mouth so quickly - desperate to do what? Shriek or vomit? - I coordinate perfectly with my flailing, allowing splashes of blood to fling themselves inside, and I begin gurgling. The sweet, coppery taste is foul as it coats the roof of my mouth and flecks onto my teeth; the urge to retch only being beaten out by my need to alleviate myself of the taste. I spit desperately and hurriedly, praying the taste will be gone as quickly as possible to a God I’ve never even really believed in. Frustration overwhelms me and I scream. The noise is a high pitched sound I never knew I was capable of. Harsh and grating against my own eardrums, as my voice echoes off the empty lake, rounding back on me in a wave of despair.

 

The woman laughs now - creating the first blemish of ugliness against her. It’s an unattractive noise - grinding and intensely cruel - but effective at grasping my attention away from the liquid surrounding me. I look up at her face - those golden eyes now sparkling with a sadistic sheen. There’s a malevolent promise hidden in that shine. As if she isn’t taking credit for the blood lake personally, but the quantity of it shed is something she finds inspiring, or maybe just downright commendable.

 

“My dear, this is the first of so much blood that is going to be spilled.” She calls in her soothing voice - rising above the now silent scream my mouth is frozen is. My mind blanks for a moment, processing the words, tripping over them furiously, causing it to round back in order to try and make sense of the situation. “So much more is to come Esther, so much more.”

 

Her scorpion-cat spits at me, little eyes narrowed into near reptilian slits. If it could produce more facial expressions I’m torn between guessing whether it’d be grimacing or smirking right now. 

 

My thoughts fight amongst themselves, desperately wrestling for dominance as I continue my attempts to process the situation. How does she know my name? This strange, scarily beautiful, almost  _ impish _ creature...but she’s no imp. I can see that now. Large, pulsating black markings - veins? - run down her face, the darkness against the porcelain flesh almost blinding, leading away from her shining eyes, where inky flecks gather amongst the molten gold. More cluster around her wrists, slithering upwards til they curve round the ends of those long fingers that beckon me forwards. They stain across her thighs and skim down her legs, hidden by the folds of fabric; they probably even wrap around her tiny waist. Her nails seem to have grown in length whilst my mind’s been attempting to get control of my sight - curling over, resembling that of a hawks - as she smiles once more. Even the luminous white of her teeth appears to radiate with delight as she grins, more black tendrils erupting through her cheeks and wriggling their across her face til they’re absorbed back into her hairline. 

 

“Don’t be afraid, Esther. Your power is just starting to show! Trust me.”

 

“Who are you?” My voice comes out as a choked scream, and I make no attempts to hide my obvious terror. “How do you know who I am?  _ What _ are you?” I sound desperate, unsure, pleading; and I don’t feel ashamed of that for once. I desperately want the answers to these questions. I need them.

 

She cocks her head to the side for a moment, as if the notion someone wouldn’t recognise her is confusing. A forbidden thought. Unthinkable almost. Something that’s never been raised as an issue before. Until now.

 

“You can call me Lord Daire.” She sounds almost bored as she replies, tilting her head back again so her blackened mane spirals back across her shoulders and a slender neck - overrun with those ugly, writhing black veins - is exposed for a brief moment before she drops her head forwards once more. Her expression is impartiale now. No delight, but no real offense has been taken. Not yet at least. “I belong to the Demonata. A race of many, but lacking few of power. Myself included in the power bracket.” She smiles smugly then, a satisfied glean rushing itself into her vision. “And you intrigue me, Esther, so very much. You have hidden potential no-one could have foreseen, and I have simply come to unlock your talents because you cannot do so naturally.”

 

The woman - Lord Daire - moves to stand properly now, body swivelling in a graceful motion as she extends her hands towards me and opens her palms, blackness flooding across them as she does so. “So come to me, Esther Blake. And let me show you what being a demon lord really means.”

 

But my head is swirling now as the world begins to spin; the nightmare world as I know it. My eyelids begin to flicker closed as I fight to prop them open; Lord Daire’s voice muddying into incoherence as the hisses and squeals of the scorpion-cat begin to be deafened as her’s loudness. Neith of the two dare jump into the lake of blood to grab me, as if they can’t swim, or they fear the blood will have some acidic effect upon them. It’s not like I’m drowning though - so I’ll still be of some apparent use in this hellish landscape landscape; the lake itself has merely morphed it’s motions to mimic that of a toilet, flushing me down. I’m swept around like I’m in the middle of a hurricane, my arms feebly clawing at the air but I’m so worn out I know it’s pointless. They’re aching from keeping me afloat, and sting to lift.

 

Blood splashes all over me now - coating my skin and dying my hair - but I have the sense to close my mouth as tight as possible, avoiding a repeat of earlier. The liquid covers me like a sentient blanket, protecting me from the sight of Lord Daire and her hellish companion; instead overwhelming my vision with the now blessed shade of red all around.

 

I can still hear her shouting something - in a language I’ve never heard before, a series of hissing noises; almost shaped to resemble words but lacking clarification or acknowledging I possess. It’s the strangest language I could ever imagine - but more squeals, snarls, snuffles, grunts, groans, roars and wails reply, and I realise she’s calling upon her wider clan of misshapen monsters to claw me out of the water. Maybe part of her knows she’s too late - I can sense the disappointment in her tone, the anguish of failure, the annoyance of disappointment. She played her cards too late and now has lost me to the bloody sink hole of the lake, this lake of blood.

 

Only then do I seem to consider the fact I’m not drowning. I’m no fish girl, I have no gills and squirm helplessly through the water; but I don’t get the chance to die. A green light bursts through the water, sticking out like a sore thumb in the darkness all around, and glitters as the moonbeams fall upon its glow. “Wake up Esther...” A voice calls from amongst the folds of emerald light; far off, thickly accented (Irish I think...), but a new, strange tone all the same. It drifts through the light and guides it towards me, surrounding me with shades of mint and ivy, pushing back the faux water. “Wake up Esther! YOU MUST WAKE UP!”

 

And I do.

 

-

 

I’m soaked in sweat when I fly forwards; bolt upright in bed, and shivering violently.

 

My sleeping shirt - an old, moss green coloured one; I’ve already had to sew up several holes in it, and the seams are barely keeping themselves together at this point - drenched in perspiration and plasted against my clammy skin. I feel like I’ve been shoved straight from the Sahara desert into the Antarctic, and my hands fly up to my face as I lean all my weight forwards, burying my head onto my knees as I try to steady my figure. To my own surprise I didn’t scream, like I guessed I must have the second I returned to proper conscious. Dad’s a light sleeper and would’ve come running if I had - even though I’m approaching legal adulthood faster than he’d like to accept.

 

Still shaking like a leaf in a November wind, I sharply remind myself to stop being so stupid. My bedside clock glows 4:12 AM back at me as I stare gormlessly at it for a couple of seconds, and I pout at the neon red light as I resign myself to the fact I’m likely not crashing again. In about eleven hours I’ll be visiting Dervish Grady and his nephew with mum, and I blame that for the cause of my nightmare. Whenever I’m going to a new place my nightmare’s rise up once more - and socialising tends to strike a fear in me not many other anxieties can contend with; but it’s not just confided to that. Even simple holiday’s to a new place before have bought on brutal bad dreams in unrelenting slews. My mind doesn’t enjoy showing me much mercy when it picks up on nerves.

 

I take an extremely deep breath and make an attempt at pulling myself together, and then it hits me, right in the middle of the forehead, and simultaneously in both temples. Making friends will be twice as hard now when I start (well that’s if I even bother starting). Who’d want to be friends with a crow-eyed girl who has fucked up nightmares? If I really want to give into cowardice, I’ll pull a sickie later and get out of mum’s trip idea, allowing me to cower in my room and ignore the feeling of guilt about lying to her.

 

Making yourself ill is a trick that’ never been too hard for me. If I get worried or nervous enough I can be physically sick or bring on a fever - it’s something my immune system seems accepting of, as it does a good job keeping me away from even a common cold. I sigh pitifully and lean back against the pillows of my bed, my pale blonde waves tied into two plaits snaking their ways outwards in opposite directions. It’s a hassle before bed but saves me the agony of brushing in the mornings. My hair tangles easily at the best of times (thin texture and all), so I try to be careful. But even thinking of my hair - the one feature I’ve definitely come to like and take actual pride in - can’t calm me.

 

This nightmare was different. It was way too... _ real  _ for my own liking. I could feel the blood around me, hear Lord Daire’s voice in my ears clear as day, taste the sweetened bitter of the bloody lake, and smell the dampness radiating off her creepy little pet. Like it was real...

 

_ ‘Maybe it was!’ _ a niggle at the back of my mind teases cruelly.  _ Shut it _ , I snap back, trying desperately to ease my fears away - forcing my mind into happier places, simpler thoughts, old comforts and good memories - but they’re refusing to be easily pushed under the carpet this time. Everything is thrumming around me, like a crazy radar of terror. I sigh again and massage my scalp, deciding to untie my hair and retie it again ( _ distractions, distractions _ ).

 

Keeping myself busy is the best way to get my mind off nightmares - it’s a little technique Violet taught me.

 

Violet is my only real friend back in Britain. My best friend.

 

If I want to be cynical, I’d say our meeting was inevitable. I met her whilst at Grandma Tolnay’s one year when I was nine, on the beach. Grandmother Tolnay lived along the coastline, used to stay it was good salt air for her in her old age, so she’d settled in Scarborough in her late years; right next to a small beach in a grand, beautiful house painted a rich light blue. Violet Whittle lived down the road in a white house that was bigger (for good reason), completed with a glorious garden full of rose bushes, potato patches and apple trees, guarded diligently by a Golden Retriever named Honey.

 

Violet’s the youngest of four children; having three older brothers - Edward, Christopher and Henry. I’ve barely met any of them, as they tended to prefer perusing around the town and avoiding small beaches clustered with families, elderly couples and small herds of teenagers swigging bottles of cheap cider. With a mother named Carietta and a father named Mitchell; she also felt out of place (a trait I found attractive back then and still do now). Her mum’s American - with curly hair the colour of ripe strawberries, freckled, rosy cheeks and blessed with large blue eyes, forever bedecked in pastel smocks and bathed in flowery perfumes. Her dad’s big and bear-like, cuddly looking, with rolling arm muscles a and ruddy complexion; strong jawline covered by a bushy beard coloured the same wheat of his thick hair (the polar opposite of my black haired, ashen beanpole father flecked with paint). 

 

From the brief encounters I’ve had with them over the years, and judging by the loving stacks of photos always on display throughout the house, Violet’s three brothers have all inherited their own attractive qualities. My poor best friend couldn’t have been more different - to them, or to me.

 

Violet has a permanent flush about her - from the tips of her ears, down to her chubby toes. Her hair’s the same crimson as her mum’s, but when combined with her pinkness, it’s never done her many favours, instead only working to bring out the redness about her - which is offset worse by the deep greyness of her eye’s (the colour coming from her paternal grandpa, I’ve been told). Overweight and awkward in her posture, Violet dresses plainly - skirts always resting at the knee, drab and bulky jumpers to hide her figure more, cardigans she squeezes against herself; and as long as I’ve known her, she’s never given herself much of a chance fashion wise. We used to joke she was the Heat Miser to my Snow Miser. Sadly now it couldn’t ring more true.

 

We’ve both always known what it’s like to be outsiders - which is why we naturally connected. Loneliness is a beacon that drew us together, but over the years, our shared humor, interests and awareness of our social ineptitude glued us together. I barely saw her outside of the holiday’s though, and now I strongly doubt I’ll see her more than once a year. At least Newcastle and Scarborough was an affordable train journey. Ireland brings about a whole new financial crisis, until I can find myself a job. I can’t help but glare at my mirror self as I undo my plaits, winding the black bobbles out of my hair, as I attempt to figure out a scheme to get me to Scarborough without whining to my overworked parents.

 

For a moment I stare down across my dresser and my heart longs for the image of a makeup bag - although I know that’s not happening. Ever. No makeup - the chemicals react with my skin in a bad way, and if I picked the wrong type, it could do damage I’ve never even allowed myself to consider. My one exception though was mascara - a silver lining to my cosmetic cloud, as my eyelashes border on white, and they’re the one of the few things I fight tooth and nail to highlight. If I ventured near some eyeshadow though, I come out with a rash and spots, so I look more like Violet, who seems to have a fresh wave of acne if she so much as forgets to cream herself for one night. I still thank my parents for both being blissfully clear skinned. It’s times like this when I have to smack myself for being so ungrateful.

 

Violet and I make a right pair when we walk around together. A nervous fire hydrant and an escaped corpse is probably the most apt description of us, but I know deep down she deserves better than that.

 

She managed to make a couple friends since our initial meeting in Scarborough - although she told me the sincerity of their intentions still remains doubtful. Violet doubts a lot of things, and I know it links into how she feels about her looks...something I’ll never deem fair. They were all male - the grand three of them, we enjoy jokingly saying; two brothers and their friend who came to visit an uncle or cousin most weekends. I was probably an unbelievable letdown to them. They probably hoped Violet’s ‘best friend from Newcastle’ was pretty and vivacious - instead I was pessimistic, plain and near silent.

 

Maybe if they’d stared at my face long enough they would’ve seen some of it’s so-called ‘hidden beauty’, but I didn’t really blame them for not doing so. The most I resembled was a sexual outlet - and that was only because I was the thin one. I didn’t even have Violet’s sharp sense of humor, or her actual ability to competently talk to them. One of them had offered me an opportunity to ‘get it off’ - I’m guessing he was either incredibly bored, irrevocably desperate or painfully frustrated - but I’d turned him down as politely as you could given the offer. Maybe he’d looked at my face just about long enough to see its ‘hidden’ attractiveness; but I still have a feeling he was just a bored teenager, only a year above me, looking for something (or should that be  _ someone _ ?) to do.

 

Part of me - the part I’ve deemed either insane or especially needy - has wondered if I should call him about it. Violet gave me his number on request - accompanied by a distinctly unimpressed look (one I tactically pretended to be ignorant of at the time) - and I still have it locked away on my phone; like some half-broken trophy. Maybe I should tell him I’m ready, now that I’m living in the barrens, where no-one can find out about my shameful need to achieve a teenhood milestone? I’m pitifully unromantic - and want to lose my virginity as quickly as possible. When the hymen breaks it hurts like a bitch; so - being a regular softy at heart - I want it to get it over and done with quickly. But maybe I need to find someone ‘special’? Not just a friend of Violet’s from a village near Scarborough. Even a loner like me wouldn’t stoop that low, I hope.

 

After briefly massaging my scalp for the umpteenth time, I set about with my furious re-plaiting, fingers twisting nimbly through my thin curtain of hair, eyes transfixed at the reflection of them pulling the hair into braided folds quickly. I become more and more aware of the sweat clinging to myself through these actions and - shuddering one more in unchecked disgust - once I finish my plaiting, I yank my trusty nightshirt over my head and ball the much loved fabric in my hands as I make my way over to bathroom door. I pad softly down the hallway, acutely anxious to not wake any of my family from their peaceful slumber (or subject them to me in just some underwear) and ease my shirt into the washing hamper, which is propped up in the hallway, in between Evie and I’s room doors.

 

Gently easing open my own bedroom door, I slip back inside the room, shutting it behind me as quickly as I’d opened it, taking in the sights of the one place in the house I can call my own. My new room. It was painted purple, a sort of lavender shade - and although mum hadn’t been the biggest fan, for nce I’d stood my ground, and dad had supported my sense of building identity (I think in private she’d actually been pretty impressed).

 

Dream catchers littered the walls, but they were clearly lying sons of bitches as they barely worked. My bedspread was patterned with cats - an ‘army of Salems’ Violet had Christened them, as every single one looked like they’d have been at home on a witches broom. My chest of drawers sat in the corner like a large bear hibernating, and was flanked by the small wicker chair I’d been gifted with by Violet’s dad for my fifteenth birthday, littered with a large stack of cushions and one of Aunt Martha’s hand knitted quilts. I glanced back at my clock and read the time - 4:58. Clearly my daydreaming in the bathroom had been more impactful than I’d initially realised.

 

Small gaps of light are shining through the curtains; long, white gold fingers stroking the atmosphere of my room, desperately attempting to clamber inside to the warmth properly. I yawn a little as my body begins to absorb the cold and once again I shiver. Tiredness hasn’t properly set in yet, and I want to say downing some coffee with my breakfast could just about see me through the day til noon. I’ve fallen asleep in class before, but no-one reacted much when I did. It’d take too much effort, and effort directed at Esther Blake is one bit of effort too much. That’s why I’ve thankfully avoided being bullied.

 

People who wish they were bullied - those strange narcissistic types - than be ignored have never made sense to me. Being ignored was far better than the cruel sniggers, the snider remarks or the cryptic looks thrown your way the second your back was turned. I’d sit in a side or back seat in every class, and keep my head down, be a good student. Teachers liked me well enough - even though I lacked a charismatic or memorable personality - because I got good grades, but as I’ve said, friends have never been something I’ve known in abundance. Until I met Violet, I was an even lonelier child than I sometimes like to admit...

 

As I push back thoughts of social isolation, I venture towards the sleeping bear which I call my dresser, and pull open one of the drawers. I might be weird but even I don’t enjoy being cold. That’s more Violet’s forte - in how no matter the weather she can always layer herself up. I can’t ignore the urge to begin picking through my clothes though, and for a second I wonder if I should bother trying to pick out an outfit to wear later today to see the Grady’s, but I don’t want to seem like some freaky try-hard and show up looking stupidly formalised. School won’t be any easier if one of my peers already has the impression I’m a fashion related nutcase.

 

Maybe my lack of style added to my poor socialising. I’d call myself individual, but that’s because I have no label for myself, not even one of my own invention. I tend to own such a mixture of clashing styles it means judging me’s harder if you want to go off physical appearance alone - which you always get dealt with attending a school environment. That’s something I’m going to miss about Bursey. My new school at the Vale is uniform free, completely devoid of any officialised dress code - in other words, a personal nightmare for anyone like me. How do I make a good impression when I don’t even know how to categorise myself? It has the knock on effect of meaning I never know  _ who _ to approach first, and subsequently people just don’t seem to think I’m interested. Or maybe they just don’t care. I’d love to call myself a mind reader, but in that regard, I’m a total useless shit.

 

Once again I sigh as I yank out one of my old jumpers - another one of dad’s twin sisters creations; good for sleeping in though, as she has good quality fabrics to work with - and pair it up with a faded pair of leggings once overlaid with shorts when I somehow thought that looked good on me. The one clothing item I’ve ever felt like showing off is my leather jacket - real black leather, and something that means every vegetarian classmate I’ve ever properly engaged has considered me the spawn of the devil. Even if I didn’t like it, how was I supposed to refuse when mum bought it especially after one of her special trips to France? People are impossible sometimes. I almost don’t want to blame myself for struggling to make friends!

 

I turn back to my mirror and once again take in my body before I yank my clothing back on top of it. For the most part I’m all smooth and pale. My waist has no real definition, but I can’t complain about many things really, as I’m skinny, and that takes away one insecurity I know Violet’s never been able to get over. Thanks to mum - she of the unfairly lovely figure - I just about manage to have an emphasised chest (and I figured out early on owning a bra or two the size too small helped over emphasise this when I was feeling like attempting at some form of attention from classmates). I tend to stick to pale underwear, as anything black, or even navy, is a disaster against my pasty flesh; and turns me once again into a vampire-zombie hybrid. Only I can’t get off wearing corsets or excuse stumbling around on a morning, grumbling about needing sustenance.

 

Pulling back on my new set of clothes I glance back towards the clock once more - 5:04 AM. 

 

Mum’ll be awake soon. She always likes to get up early when she’s got something planned for the day - and she’s likely got work to get out of the way before taking me to meet the mysterious Dervish Grady and his nephew. If I time it right I could shuffle downstairs a few minutes after her and just claim the new paint smell’s messing with my sleep patterns. But if she went downstairs and I was up before her, she’d ask questions, and it’s hard keeping things from a lawyer. Especially when she’s your own mother.

 

My mother finds nightmares childish - sometimes I question how long she classified herself as a kid - so it’s dad I turn to whenever I have a particularly bad one. She didn’t read me many stories as a child, leaving it up to dad to teach me about fairytales and fables, as it’s always been more up his street anyways; whilst she handled morality and questions. My mother’s all about fact; my father’s all about fiction. Odd, but somehow they’ve always managed to work together on these principals. It’s like their differences bring them together, and not just when it comes to imagination. Namely, religion. My maternal family mostly come in waves of strong Catholicism, and this usually means I’m subjected to the odd religious discussion or two when friends or relatives come over to speak to us. My paternal family on the other hand are predominantly atheist, and to dad, church was often a foreign concept when compared to his friends’ growing up.

 

Religion tends to be given a polite brush off by them both now. I’d say we’re all agnostic, and for the most part, it suits me well. Our unit always seems to function despite it’s differences - so maybe that’s why a new edition frightens me? A disruption of the natural order?

 

Part of me’s always wished I could get married - find some strange harmony like my parents have achieved. But I have strong suspicions I’ll never reach that. Boys don’t find me attractive or interesting so I doubt one of them would ever want to shack up with me. And where girls’ are concerned...I feel I haven’t tried enough to comment on my own preferences. I’m not past secondary school yet though... I’m sure there’s much more diverse people out there waiting in the world. I just have to find them. And bring Violet with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually pretty smooth - to both write and post. The original was considerably better than a lot of the other chapters I'm soon going to be tackling - namely, they're absolute messes - but I still wanted to improve the tone, by helping it become more foreboding and implying more about what's to come. I also called uploading this a reward for finishing the first part of my Understanding Behaviour that Challenges course! *sad little fanfair*
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading! Kudos and comments are ALWAYS welcome!

**Author's Note:**

> technically, this story is a rewrite! I crafted a Demonata fanfic when I was fourteen, and the whole thing is...a questionable, beautiful mess; to put it lightly. I didn't plan (it SERIOUSLY showed) and nothing had a consistency to it, so here, I wanted to rewrite and rectify Esther's tale; while adding my own twists and new dimensions to the Demonata universe. All I hope is that you enjoy - plus, reviews keep my life-support functioning!


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